


Eggs for Two

by portraitofemmy



Series: Queliot Week 2019 [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cooking, Cottage Fic, Dogs, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, M/M, Mosaic Timeline, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Season/Series 4, Quentin Coldwater Is Alive, Season/Series 01, Slice of Life, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 13:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: The kitchen isn’t that big, so Quentin boosts himself up to sit on the counter in front of the coffee pot, mostly out of Eliot’s way while he alternates between the stove and the cutting board.“Where did you learn to cook?” Quentin asks, curious, over the sound of sizzling sausages and the rhythmic copping of Eliot’s knife. He clearly knows what he’s doing, the knife in his hands rocks smoothly, reducing the pepper down to half-inch sized chunks.For some reason, Eliot looks surprised at the questionThree times Eliot and Quentin make breakfast together.Queliot Week Day 4 – Free Day





	Eggs for Two

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born out of the idea that Eliot’s love language is Acts of Service, and that Quentin’s is Words of Affirmation. Things work best for them when they’re speaking each other’s language. The first part is set somewhere in early season 1, the second part is set on the mosaic, the third is set during [(this is) the beat of my heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18978655) but you might be able to get away with reading this without reading that.
> 
> Thanks as ever to the wonderful [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) for being my sounding block and fandom buddy.

The Physical Kids’ Cottage wasn’t exactly the quietest place on campus, on your average night. They had their reputation for a reason, after all, and even if there wasn’t a party going on, there were people milling about, talking and socializing. There was a sweet spot, though, after 2am when most people had either found their way back to their own room or to someone else’s, when the ground floor of the cottage was silent and empty and calm. 

Sometimes Quentin likes the cottage best at those times, when sleep is particularly hard to find and he’s itching with the need to get out of his room, but the idea of people is too overwhelming. He’ll slip out of his room into the quiet cottage, curl up on the couch with a book or sprawl his homework across the table near the kitchen. The cottage still felt lived in even when people weren’t actively milling about, and he likes the sense of belonging sprawling out in the space gave him. He’s never run into anyone else, on these late night excursions, which should probably be surprising but he’s never really bothered to wonder at it.

Still, when the cottage door opens at 3am, spilling a slightly disheveled Eliot Waugh into the entryway, Quentin looks up, surprised. 

“Oh,” Eliot startles upon seeing him, and gives a forced grin which doesn’t reach his eyes. He straightens his maroon blazer like Quentin’s going to care that he’s not emmaculate. “Hi, Q. You’re up early. Or up late?”

“Late,” Quentin admits, thinking privately that he’s probably awake from much less exciting reasons that Eliot is. He’d take a booty call over insomnia any day. “Can’t sleep.”

Eliot nods, wandering over to slide into a seat at the table, glanced at the books spread across the table. “So you decided to study augury instead?”

Quentin shrugs. “Well, I thought I might be able to get some work done without being interrupted. Clearly, my augury needs improvement.”

Eliot snorts, letting him have the bad joke. There’s a beat of silence, in which Quentin can feel Eliot studying him, and then Eliot asks casually, “Have you eaten anything?”

Somehow Quentin doubts Eliot would count six pretzels and a single slice of cheese as a meal, even if it was all Quentin had the energy to find for himself. Briefly, the idea of making toast had crossed his mind earlier, but he hadn’t been able to work himself up to it yet. Awkwardly, he shrugs one shoulder. “Not really? Just like. Snacks.”

Eliot nods decisively, as if a plan has been agreed upon, and stands up from the table, shedding his blazer and draping it over the back of the chair. “How do you like your eggs?”

Quentin blinks. How did he– “What?”

“Eggs, Coldwater, unfertilized baby chickens. How do you enjoy eating them?” 

“Not thinking about them like that– Jesus, what is wrong with you?”

Eliot grins again, and this time it actually kind of reaches his eyes. A warm bubble of pride starts to swell somewhere inside Quentin’s ribcage. It’s never stopped being weird to him, that Eliot _likes_ him. Enjoys his company. “So many things, Q. So many. Eggs?”

“Scrambled, I guess? Or like. Fried but without any runny stuff?”

“Scrambled it is,” Eliot says with a crisp nod, beginning to roll up his shirtsleeves. “In this house, we do not overcook yolks.”

Quentin is– very thoroughly distracted by the miles and miles of forearm suddenly visible to him. Catching himself staring, he looks away quickly, back down at the book in his lap. Everything about Eliot is long and smooth and Quentin’s probably blushing. It definitely doesn’t help that he’s trying really hard not to imagine what the soft skin on Eliot’s inner arm would feel like under his fingers.

“You don’t need to cook for me,” he mutters, even as he watches Eliot stride purposefully into the kitchen. 

“Well, I should probably cook for me, given the amount of alcohol and other substances I’ve consumed tonight, and it would seem rude not to include you in the venture, since you’re sitting right there,” Eliot deflects, and weirdly, Quentin can tell he’s stretching the truth. Can’t say why, but Quentin firmly believes that if Eliot had come home to a quiet house, he would have just gone up to his room and passed out.

It’s weird, knowing someone like that. It’s been a while since Quentin was that close to anyone, besides Julia. That little bubble of pride grows just a little bit more. “Can I help with anything?” He asks, because yeah, okay, he’s not the best cook, and sure he hadn’t had the energy to make toast for himself earlier, but– Well. It’s Eliot.

Eliot wrinkles his nose in thought for a moment, staring into the fridge, then gives Quentin an appraising look. “Make coffee?”

That, Quentin can do. It gives him an excuse to stand in the kitchen with Eliot, share space as Eliot pulls ingredients out of the fridge. 

“You like peppers?” Eliot asks, and Quentin shrugs.

“I have no strong opinions on them.” 

So the pepper goes onto the counter, along with an onion, a package of sausages and the eggs. The kitchen isn’t that big, so Quentin boosts himself up to sit on the counter in front of the coffee pot, mostly out of Eliot’s way while he alternates between the stove and the cutting board.

“Where did you learn to cook?” Quentin asks, curious, over the sound of sizzling sausages and the rhythmic copping of Eliot’s knife. He clearly knows what he’s doing, the knife in his hands rocks smoothly, reducing the pepper down to half-inch sized chunks. 

For some reason, Eliot looks surprised at the question. “Youtube, mostly,” he admits. “That and fucking a chef who enjoyed following up sex with extremely complex snacking. You learn a lot by watching a naked man in an apron to cook steak at 3 am.”

Quentin, who has an extremely not naked man cooking him eggs at 3 am, blushes and looks away. “I can imagine.”

“Do you mind if I put on some music? It’ll be quiet enough not to wake the rest of the house.” At Quentin’s shrug, Eliot flicks his fingers out. The ipod set in a dock on the other side of the kitchen flickers on, and Quentin grins a little in spite of himself, because _magic_ , man. How did you ever get sick of that?

“Telekinetic,” he teases, and Eliot smirks at him, eyes sparkling.

The speakers are quiet and tinny, but familiar bopping melody of some mid-2000s pop song spills out into the quiet room, settling comfortably into the silence. It’s remarkably not awkward, and Quentin tries not to think about it too much, least he pop the fragile bubble of comfort. Feet swinging in rhythm with the song, he watches Eliot cook, the comfort and ease in which he inhabits himself. This playlist isn’t what Quentin would have expected from him, but it fits somehow, with this stripped back, relaxed version of his friend. 

He watches Eliot efficiently crack eggs into a bowl, swaying as the song changes, the familiar synthy intro of _Boys, Boys, Boys_ spilling out into the kitchen. Eliot grins, bopping his head a little, beating the eggs in time with the base. Usually irreverent, in that moment Eliot seems younger, unironic in his enjoyment of the music.

“Gaga, really?” Quentin teases warmly, as the refrain bops around them. Like he’s got any ground to stand on, when it came to unironically loving things, and Eliot knows that.

_Boys boys boys, we like boys in cars, boys boys boys, buy us drinks in bars. Boys boys boy, with hairspray and denim, boys boys boys, we love them._

“Don’t hate,” Eliot smirks, flipping a pan onto the stove top. “I was a baby gay in 2008, I _worshipped_ Gaga. She told me it was okay, I was born this way.”

He says it lightly, like it’s a joke, but Quentin knows enough of Eliot’s early life to know that– maybe– there’s a reason Eliot’s one of the few people who’s never judged Quentin for the things that kept him going.

“I was always more of a Taylor Swift guy myself.”

“Oh, Q. No. Just no.” But Eliot’s smiling as he pours the eggs into the pan, swirling a silicon spatula through them in a figure eight motion. 

“Did you watch Glee?” Quentin asks, teasing, kicking his heels up against the counter cabinets.

“Quentin. Who _didn’t_ watch Glee?”

Quentin laughs, because okay. He definitely had, the first couple seasons. He tries to imagine a teenage Eliot, and honestly can’t call anything to mind. How could Eliot be anything but like he was now, wholly and unapologetically himself?

“Can you make toast?” Eliot asks, prompting gently, and Quentin hops off the counter with a nod. He finds it easier than he could have imagined, to do this simple thing now with Eliot nearby, sharing space, bopping his head along with the music. What had seemed like an insurmountably difficult challenge before comes easily now. 

Quentin butters the toast and pours out cups of coffee while Eliot slides the eggs out onto two plates, scooping out sausages and peppers next to them. Quentin passes Eliot a mug, watching with mild curiosity as Eliot scoops a spoonful of sugar into it and pours in milk. Quentin’s been drinking his coffee black most of his adult life, due to the simple fact that buying milk was another fucking thing to remember to do when he was only nouns, reduced down to _coffee_ and _bed_ and _obligations_. There’s something oddly endearing about Eliot taking his coffee soft and sweet.

With Quentin’s books still spread out all over the table, there’s not really a lot of places to sit, but they squish in, sitting on each angle of a corner of the table, side by side. The tiny speakers in the kitchen are still softly spilling out bright poppy music, and it makes the silence easier, somehow. Quentin pulls a leg up onto his chair and reaches out for the plate Eliot hands him. The smell of the food wafts up towards him, and he’s suddenly ravenous, mouth watering and stomach growling.

It helps that everything taste fucking amazing. The eggs are soft and pillowy, the sausages adding a rich fattiness with the bite of the peppers. Everything is just the right amount of salty, not too greasy and satisfying. 

“These are the best eggs I’ve ever eaten,” Quentin mutters around a mouth full of food, and Eliot’s laughter is bright in the quiet of the night.

It’s a good night.

__

Eliot wakes up alone.

That’s pretty unusual these days. Quentin wasn’t particularly inclined by biology or habit to rise early, and even on the off chance that he woke up first, mostly he just cuddled in until Eliot woke up. Because that is Eliot’s _life_ now, he gets to _have_ that, lazy mornings with a sleep-warm Q in his arms on a soft mattress of sweet smelling straw. Sometimes they fuck, and sometimes they talk, and sometimes they just lay there as the sun breaks through the shutters of the cottage, bodies existing in space together. 

But this morning, he’s alone, and when he groggily reaches over to the space Quentin should be, the sheets and blankets are cool with mid-winter chill. When he listens, there’s no clink of tiles, but he can almost make out the crackling of the fire in the main room of the cottage. Maybe Q got up to tend to that.

Eliot gives him a few minutes to come back to bed, _where he should be_ , drifting groggily half asleep. But the door to the bedroom stays shut, watery early morning winter sunlight peeking in through the shutters, and Eliot’s concern grows too much for him to ignore.

It’s been awhile since either of them have fought a losing battle with insomnia. Hard manual labor and truly spectacular sex were usually enough to knock them on their asses as soon as they tried to reach for sleep, most of the time. Even when anxiety was keeping Quentin up, he was getting better about talking about it, letting Eliot talk him down. He was getting better about believing that Eliot _wanted_ to talk him down, understanding what Eliot couldn’t say– how fucking lucky he felt to be the person who got to see all of Quentin’s soft places.

But it was barely sunrise, and Quentin had been up long enough for the blankets to go cold.

So Eliot drags himself out of bed, and then quickly finds some pants and a shirt and a sweater because it’s winter. It’s fucking chilly, and even if it never got New York-level cold in Fillory, _insulation_ didn’t super exist here. When he goes to reach for their quilt, usually folded at the foot of the bed, he finds it missing. 

Smiling a little, he pushes the door open to the main cottage and finds– exactly what he expects to find, honestly. Quentin, curled up on the sitting bench near the fire, wrapped in the quilt with a book in his lap. The fire is crackling along merrily, and now that Eliot’s pushed the door open, he can smell the warm, hearty scent of something baking. Not bread, something richer. Biscuits, maybe. They’d gotten a large chunk of butter recently, in trade for helping de-ice the frozen-over wheel at the mill. Quentin had been talking about making biscuits. 

Q’s absorbed in his book, and Eliot takes a moment just to watch him. The loose bun in his hair is coming out already, the short bits at the front already slid loose to frame his face. He’s lovely, in the glow of the fire light, so fucking lovely it makes Eliot’s heart ache. _Oh,_ but fire light was always so kind of him, sharpened his jaw and deepened his dimples. It made him both softer and more masculine, somehow. It made Eliot want to _crawl inside him._

“Why are you awake?” He mutters grumpily, shuffling into the room. He’s sure he’s a mess, curls sticking up in every direction, but honestly he doesn’t really care. Q’s seen worse.

Quentin doesn’t jump, exactly, but he does turn a surprised expression over towards Eliot. Like he’s instinctively too aware of Eliot’s presence to be startled by it, like Eliot belongs in his space. He holds the quilt open in invitation, and Eliot takes it, shuffles over to crawl onto the bench and into the little bubble of warmth that is Quentin’s personal space. It’s a little awkward, Eliot has to fold his limbs up in some interesting ways to fit, but it’s fine. He’s used to cuddling people smaller than him, and it’s worth it, because Quentin smells _good_. Like flour and butter and boy, and the familiar scent that always lingered in their quilt. He gets a kiss for his troubles, warm and soft and slow, gentle like the early morning light.

“The wind woke me up,” Quentin murmurs, as Eliot snuggles down into his chest, wrapping the quilt tightly around both of them. “It’s quiet now but it was really going for awhile there.”

“Didn’t have to leave,” Eliot mutters, petulant, and yeah okay. Maybe he deserves to be laughed at a little.

But Quentin’s hand comes up to smooth down his curls, start them going in the right direction, so Eliot doesn’t feel too bad about being a brat. “I know. I was going to make you breakfast, though.”

A beat, and Eliot pulls back to squint at Quentin skeptically. “You were going to cook?”

Quentin rolls his eyes, and flicks Eliot in the forehead for good measure. “That joke stopped being funny like a year and a half ago. If I don’t cook, I starve. Welcome to Fillory-of-the-past.”

“Ow. Bitch,” Eliot grumbles, and sticks his forehead back into Quentin’s neck. To protect it from flicking. 

“Yeah, fuck me for trying to be nice to you, right?” Quentin says sarcastically, but there’s no heat in it at all, and Eliot is still being very thoroughly cuddled, so he assumes he’s fine. 

“Why are you make me breakfast?” He asks sleepily, rubbing his nose against Q’s collarbones. Now that he’s under the blanket with him, Eliot can tell the wrap shirt Quentin’s wearing is gaping open at the chest. Not the best for preserving body heat, maybe, but very, very good for rubbing his face on. “It’s not my birthday.”

As best they can tell, anyway. 

“Do I need a reason?” Quentin asks quietly, and _oh,_ he’s so fucking kind, it hurts, _it hurts._ Loving him so much is digging a hole through Eliot’s ribs. “You do stuff for me all the time.”

_But that’s you,_ Eliot wants to point out, like it should be obvious. Q should have kindness done for him, whenever possible. The world’s been so dark for him for so long, he deserves someone working to make it lighter, and right now that person gets to be Eliot. He doesn’t know how to say it, though, and Quentin’s still petting him. His thumb brushes softly against Eliot’s ear, makes him shiver as sensation blooms over sensitive nerve endings there. _I taught him that,_ Eliot realizes, and is a little dizzy with it.

“I like taking care of you,” he whispers, and it’s– it’s hard to say, he’s scared of it. Wants to grab the words out of the air as soon as they hit it, stuff them back into his mouth and swallow them down to his stupid leaky heart.

But Quentin doesn’t let the fear live for long. He chuffs out a little laugh, and wraps his arms around Eliot, hugging him tight. “I like you taking care of me, too, baby,” he says softly, and Eliot’s stupid leaky heart just. Dissolves. Gone. Goo in Quentin’s hands. “Doesn’t mean I can’t do nice stuff for you every once in a while.”

“I mean,” Eliot swallows, and fuck, he’s lucky his face is still stuffed in Q’s neck, because his fucking eyes are prickling. Who was the last person who’d cared enough about Eliot to get up special on a random morning, just to make him breakfast? “If you want to, I guess you can.”

“If I want to,” Quentin agrees, teasing just a little. Eliot swallows down the tears threatening to crack him open, and Q lets him hide, stay safe and quiet tucked away in the curve of Quentin’s perfect little body as the sun rises around them. The sitting bench isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but Eliot’s used to it, at this point. He could almost fall back to sleep like this, to the steady rhythm of Quentin’s breath, wrapped in warmth and comfort.

“I need to check the biscuits,” Quentin whispers eventually, almost apologetically, and Eliot drags himself away. Quentin leaves the blanket with him, and Eliot steals it, drapes it over himself to watch Quentin move comfortably around their home.

He watches Quentin poke at the biscuits, then slide them back onto the metal sheet over the fire for a few more minutes, watches him pull a handful of eggs out of their magically temperature-controlled food cabinet and put them in a pot on the fire to boil. He watches Quentin heat water for tea with a snap of his fingers, watches him carefully crack open one of the last jars of jam they have left, precious in the lean winter months. He feels like he should offer to help, but at the same time he can read Quentin’s body language, and he seems happy. Proud. _I can do nice things for you too._

Well. Eliot can be brave enough to let him. Maybe. 

He does remind Quentin about the eggs, because they don’t have that much food right now, winter is lean and they’re going to have to eat them even if they are overcooked. Quentin rolls his eyes and pointedly scoops out two of them, leaving the rest to boil away like the heathen he is. Eliot flicks him off in return, which just makes him grin, happy and broad and open with dimples for days. _Fuck._

By the time the biscuits are out and cooling, Eliot’s stomach is growling. They smell _amazing,_ rich and buttery and warm. He does emerge to help then, carefully peeling his own soft boiled eggs while Quentin cracks his hard boiled ones. They have strong Fillorian tea in mended mugs, and sit feet tangled together at the table to eat. The biscuits are a little chewy, a little over-worked, but they’re the best fucking things Eliot has ever tasted. Spread liberally with plum jam, they taste like Quentin’s affectionate smile, the devotion in his eyes.

_Somebody, maybe, loves me,_ Eliot thinks. It’s a precious thought, one he doesn’t let linger very often. But it’s hard to hold it at bay this morning, with homemade biscuits and Quentin’s calf against his. 

He eats two of them.  
__

Three months after the Monster, and Eliot’s been doing better. 

He has been, honestly. More days than not, now, his body is willing to be a body, as long as he doesn’t push it too much. He’s now capable of doing exciting things like _standing in line at the grocery store_ and _holding Quentin’s backpack while Q threatens a Redcap for their ridiculous Babayaga rent quest._ Life really did regain it’s sparkle once you weren’t trapped inside your own brain.

Except– 

Except. His body is kind of only willing to be a body part of the time. It’s better than it was, in the first few tentative months, it honestly is getting better. In the same way Quentin’s brain is getting better: slowly, in stops and starts, with the occasional backslide. 

Which is why he currently finds himself alone in the kitchen of the condo, fighting with a fucking chef’s knife, because apparently he swapped out being trapped in his brain for being trapped in his _body–_

The fucking knife shakes in his useless fucking hands and he makes himself set it down. Press his hands firmly into the counter and hunch over. Breathe, in the way he learned to do for Q in another life, that breathing which pulled you out of your panic and settled you into the present moment. _Concentrate on sounds, what can you hear?_

He can hear the shower running in their bedroom, the shuffle-clunk sound of Quentin in the shower. He can hear the jingle of Dessy’s tags, as she scratches or flops around somewhere in their room. Breathe in, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Breath out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. He can hear movement upstairs from Julia’s room, muffled footsteps as she gets ready for her day. Breath in. There’s the omnipresent sound of traffic on the street outside the building, ever present in the depths of New York City. Breathe out. The low hum of the refrigerator behind him, and the near-silent whistle of the central air. Breathe in. Breathe out. The shower shutting off, and gurgle of the pipes that went with it.

His hands are still shaking when he goes to pick up the knife again, shaking enough that he knows that using it would be foolishly dangerous. There’s the impulse to try anyway, careless and willfully negligent, but. But.

If he cuts his own fucking fingers off, it’s gonna be Q who has to deal with it.

Eliot breathes, and sets the knife down again. 

He’s still standing there with his hands pressed flat against the chilly granite when Quentin wanders out of the bedroom, wriggly little puppy squirming in his arms. “El?” he asks, making worried eyebrows at him. “Are you okay.”

“My body is literal garbage,” Eliot bites out, and holds a shaking hand up so Quentin can see. Two of his rings clack together, fucking annoying proof of his point, and his closes his fist, pressing it into the countertop again.

A soft shuffling of fabric, and the patter of tiny paws as Quentin deposits the dog down on the tiles of the kitchen floor. Lady Desdemona scampers over to her water bowl, slurps like she’s never been allowed to drink before, and Eliot watches her out of the corner of his eye because it’s easier than looking at Q.

Quentin’s hands are solid, careful when they settle on Eliot’s hips, palm sliding warmly up and down his sides. “Are you in pain?” Quentin asks from behind him, and Eliot swallows. Nods. The pain bothers him less than the shaking, pain he can almost ignore. He can’t ignore the way he’s not able to _do_ the things he wants to do. Quentin’s arms slide around his waist, settling into a hug. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“I was going to make breakfast,” Eliot says mournfully, staring down at the half chopped leeks on the cutting board in front of him. 

“I can do that,” Quentin offers, and he’s moving away, sliding his arms off of Eliot’s stomach, ready to step in and just–

“I don’t want you to do it,” Eliot makes himself say. He doesn’t give voice to the frustration often, because god knows Quentin’s dealing with enough trying to get himself back together, and really? Hadn’t he spent long enough looking after Eliot’s body when Eliot wasn’t there to drive the train? But not giving frustration a voice is almost as bad as lying to him, and Eliot’s trying not to do that anymore. “I want to be able to cook my boyfriend breakfast in the morning and I’m so fucking mad that I _can’t_ , right now, Q, you have no idea.”

There’s a beat of silence, where Quentin’s hands grip his hips and Quentin’s forehead presses between his shoulder blades. “I have some idea,” he says softly, and yeah. Yeah he does.

“I know you do,” Eliot sighs, and his knees creak when he shifts his weight to turn around because his body is a fucking joke.

Q looks up at him, wet hair and big brown eyes, and goes up on his sock-clad tip-toes for a kiss. Soft and sweet and gentle, it’s almost enough to draw Eliot out of his head, because _this_. This is what he’s doing all of this for. Recovery, and all the pain and frustration that go with it, is something he will gladly deal with because it’s a step towards the life he wants. The life they’re building. His body isn’t all bad, because his body holds Quentin when he needs to be held, and his body fucks Quentin when he wants to be fucked. His body lets him show love when he still struggles to say it aloud.

“Let me help you,” Quentin says, carefully. Eliot buries the flash of irritation, because Quentin shakes his head and continues on. “No, listen to me, El. I’m not saying let me do it, I’m saying let me help. You can’t cut things because your hands are shaking? Okay, let me cut things for you. Show me how to do it right. That’s no different than you talking me down from a panic attack, baby.” 

_But taking care of you is easy_ , Eliot thinks, looking into Quentin’s earnest face. Letting himself be taken care of in return is infinitely harder. “Okay,” he forces out, swallows, lets Quentin slot himself in between Eliot and the countertop.

It’s not all bad, really, because he gets to curl around Quentin’s perfect little frame, slide his shaking hands loosely around Quentin’s wrist and guild him. He carefully show’s Quentin how to curl the fingertips of his guiding left hand, how to rock the knife smoothly in a cutting motion with the right. It’s... intimate, might be erotic even if it wasn’t nessessitated by Eliot’s broken fucking meatsuit, but– Might be something to file away for the future. 

“Think I can lift a frying pan without my arm falling off?” Eliot mutters darkly into Quentin’s hair, glaring at the non-stick pan hanging from the pan rack on the wall.

“I think you’re a telekinetic Magician, and you can probably figure something out,” Quentin points out dryly, and oh. Well. He’s right. Eliot probably should have thought of that himself. Reaching for telekinesis is easier than pretty much anything else he’d done so far this morning, getting the pan off the rack and settled gently onto the burner of the gas stove. 

“That’s it. I’m only doing things with magic from now on. Fuck this muggle shit.” Quentin probably rolls his eyes, but Eliot can’t see it, so he ignores it. 

“Okay, green thing is chopped. Now what?”

“Into the frying pan with butter,” Eliot directs, stepping back. Dessy, who is sitting on the floor by his feet, whines a little, clearly distressed that they forgot to drop scraps for her to lick up. “Don’t trip on the dog.”

“Oh, come on, tripping on the dog is like, the high point of my morning,” Quentin bickers back, nudging her away gently with his socked foot. She trots gamely back, staring adoringly up at Q. Eliot can’t blame her even a little bit.

Eliot takes over sauteing the leeks, because that’s something he can do even with shaky hands. He directs Quentin through the cracking of the eggs, then through the process of fishing shell fragments out of the bowl with the whole shell halves. “How does this never happen to you?” Quentin grumbles, as he picks out broken fragments. His face is pinched, annoyed, and he’s the cutest thing Eliot’s ever fucking seen.

“It does,” Eliot admits, because well, everyone's badly cracked an egg in their life. “It just happens less, and also it doesn’t fluster me so you don’t notice.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.” Grumpy Quentin really is the cutest thing when it’s not you he’s grumpy with.

Then Quentin hops up on the counter, beating the eggs in the bowl while Eliot finishes sauteeing the leeks and adds some crushed garlic and red pepper flakes. Q chronically under-beats his scrambled eggs, and tries to stop 3 times, showing Eliot the consistency of the eggs for approval and being sent back to work. 

“Do you remember when you threw your back out, on the mosaic?” Quentin asks casually, as if he’s asking if Eliot remembers where they went for lunch two days ago. 

Eliot does. He remembers being bedridden for a couple weeks, and being angry as fuck about it. “It was a year or two after Teddy left.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, lazily swirling the fork around in the bowl in his lap. Eliot resists the temptation to tell him that doesn’t exactly count as beating the eggs. “You were impossible to wrangle then, too. I had to keep forcing you back into bed.”

“I can’t believe you actually managed to get any work done on the puzzle then, there was so much stuff you were stuck doing on your own.”

“I didn’t, really,” Quentin says with a shrug, and Eliot looks up at him in surprise. They’d always gotten a pattern a day done, right up until the last couple years. Or so he’d thought. Quentin just shrugs, though, and gives Eliot a thoughtful look. “At that point it was something I was doing out of habit, more than anything else– Being your partner _was_ the whole point of my life, Eliot. Your partner and Teddy’s father, that’s who I was. I wasn’t a Quester, anymore. The mosaic was only worth doing if we did it together.”

“Oh,” Eliot breathes out, and that fear prickles up the back of his neck, familiar in the face of the _depth_ of Quentin’s love. What being loved like that _means,_ how did you even handle it? But, well– he has a mantra for fear now, doesn’t he? “I love you, Q.”

Quentin smiles, bright, and leans in, tipping his face forward for a kiss. Eliot gives it, and doesn’t even have to remind him not to let the eggs tip out of the bowl. “I love you, too, sweetheart. Which is why I don’t mind being your hands when you need me to be.”

Eliot swallows, looking down into the pan in front of him. Nods, mutely, and feels Q squeeze his shoulder in response. There’s a couple more beats of silence, and then Dessy sneezes loudly, bonking her silly puppy face on the floor in the process. They both laugh, and it’s a release of tension, sliding out of the air around them. Quentin hops off the counter and puts the bowl aside, crouching down on the floor to check on the puppy. She’s fine, and licks him enthusiastically to prove it. 

They finish making food together, Quentin stepping in under Eliot’s instructions when he can’t manage things himself. Julia comes down part way through cooking the eggs and starts the french press going, puts some bread in the toaster. They eat in a semi-circle at the living room table, and if Eliot’s hands are shaking too badly for him to easily manage a fork, no one says anything about it. Dessy maybe gets more of his eggs than he’d like to admit, but it’s fine. 

“I’m going to chase down a lead in New Haven today,” Julia says, brightly, as they stack up their plates. “There’s an artifact from a hedge coven up there which might be helpful.”

“We’re going to take it easy today,” Quentin cuts in, before Eliot can say anything, can prompt Q to go along with her. “So I can run mirror support for you, if you want. Leave me any books that are relevant and I’ll look stuff up for you.”

“Sounds great,” She grins, and kissing Quentin’s cheek, and wandering by long enough to squeeze Eliot’s arm. He’s grateful to both of them, for just being who they are– to each other and to him. 

They spend the day in the apartment, where Eliot can lay on the couch with Dessy on his chest and ignore how much his joints hurt. Quentin can run support for Julia, and take care of things Eliot can’t manage himself. Eliot can let him do that. He can learn, again for this timeline, what it means to share the burden of living with someone else. He wants to.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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